Author’s Note - I wrote this based on one of my favourite songs - Heathrow by Catfish and the Bottlemen. Maybe it’s because of their aesthetics or the way a large number of their music videos are shot, but whenever I hear this song and imagine the relationship playing out it’s always in black and white. This song reminds me of drives late at night down empty roads and cold mugs of tea in the kitchen. So when you read this I recommend listening to the song first, during or after whatever your style is. I just really want you guys to listen to the song so you can maybe understand the inspiration behind this piece. It’s the first thing I’ve written in a while so let us know what you think. I did say this was the kind of piece you should read at night but I’m posting at noon because I want to go out tonight. Hope you enjoy.
He hasn’t heard from you in weeks when your name is lighting up the screen of his phone. You’ve been away, been busy, and he knows that. He’s surprised because he never expects to hear from you, never calls or texts first, never thinks that maybe someday it will be more than it is.
It’s earlier than usual when you call. The sun hasn’t even begun to set outside his window but he’s already wound down for a night on the couch. You’re not even on the phone for long. A quick “Hi I just boarded a flight back to London; can you pick me up later?” before you’re gone again. He’s agreeing - of course he’s agreeing – because no matter what Eric says he can’t seem to let you out of his life. Even if all he gets is the odd day with you every other month, or the three am call when you can’t sleep or the photo on Instagram of you somewhere out in the world.
The next time his phone is lighting up its Eric’s name flashing across his screen, almost as if Eric had some kind of sixth sense that would tell him when you had called. He answers after a minute, trying to act nonchalant when Eric asks if his night on the couch is boring enough for him to want a game of FIFA. He plays it off saying he’s busy but Eric doesn’t believe him, so he presses further. They’ve had similar conversations in the past and so he already knows how it will turn out. Eric will tell him not to go. To let you get a taxi and stay in a hotel. To ignore every one of your phone calls until you decide to stop calling. Instead of shedding any details, he’s vague – saying something has come up and he has to go out – and he’s quickly trying to end the conversation before Eric can begin to ask any more questions.
He’s setting off with plenty of time to spare, the sun now set but the sky far from black. He stops at a service station on the way and contemplates buying you some flowers. But people greet their loved ones at the airport with flowers. People greet their wives, fiancées and girlfriends at the airport with flowers. And you weren’t any of the above. He settles for a pack of your favourite crisps and a bottle of Lucozade, knowing you’ll be hungry from your flight.
Your plane hasn’t landed by the time he reaches the airport so he parks his car and walks to the terminal. When his phone rings he thinks it’s you so he answers without looking at the caller ID. He expects your voice but instead he’s greeted by a deeper voice, Eric’s voice.
“Why are you at Heathrow Airport?” Eric asks, forgoing any greetings. He responds with a lie, saying he’s not, but it’s useless. “Yes you are, I have your find my friends on and you’re at Heathrow Airport.” Again it’s another conversation they had had in the past so Eric skips ahead in the script. “You’re picking her up again, aren’t you? Oh for fuck’s sake, Del. You know she’s only gonna leave again, so what’s the point?”
Eric doesn’t understand, Eric can’t understand. He’s never been there in the car at 1am watching you sing along to your favourite song. He’s never had the pillow talk, or the 6am coffees. He’s never experienced a second alone with you when your defences are down, and so there’s no way he could know how all the pain and heartache is worth it. Even just for a second.
“I don’t care, Eric. She needs me.” And Eric tries to fight, tries to tell him to go home, but he hangs up when he sees you coming through the door into the arrivals lounge. The world is stopping around him and it’s as though he can see colour for the first time since you left. And it’s worth it.
It’s always awkward at first. Neither of you knowing whether to hug or kiss. The boundaries you established on your last visit erased by the time. You stop in front of him and take him in, his eyes a little tired and his hair not as neat as it usually is.
“Your hair is different,” He states with a nod.
“Yeah, I cut it a little – a couple of months ago actually.” You pause for a second, “It really been that long?” He nods again, reaching out a hand to grab your suitcase, motioning for you to head out the door. You fall into step together and when your hands accidentally brush you together it’s like electricity shooting up your veins. Like magnets, your fingers are drawn together and all of a sudden its like no time has passed.
He doesn’t need to ask where you want to go. He knows you want to go home. You always want to go home. And so he lets you sit in silence in the passenger seat as he drives, gorging on the crisps he bought you. The low hum of the radio fills the car and you’re on the M25 before he speaks.
“Where did you fly in from?” He asks, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Lisbon,” You reply and he hums in response, “I was working there, but my job ended last week,”
Silence fills the car once more and soon he’s pulling up into his driveway and you’re following him into the house. He puts your bag at the bottom of the stairs and heads into the kitchen. You slip off your shoes and follow him, hovering at a distance from where he stands by the kettle.
“Eric says this is a bad idea.” He says, eyes facing forward. “He says its stupid of me to do this with you whenever you need it. Because what do I get out of it? A couple of days with you before you’re gone again?”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, unsure of how to respond to his confession. “I just. I’m always gone for so long and then when I’m home,” you hesitate for second, “I never really feel at home unless I’m with you.”
The kettle finishes boiling and he makes you both a cup of tea. The air is still tense, and he remains stood by the kettle arms, pressed down on the counter, looking out the window towards the garden. The magnetic pull between you draws you closer to him and you tentatively wrap your arms around your body pressing your chest into his back and resting your head on his shoulder blade. He lifts a hand to hold one of yours splayed against his chest and for a minute you stay like that – together, finally.
He moves first - turning to face you and raising a hand to cup your face. Every time is like the first time with the two of you. You know each other - each other’s bodies - so well, and yet you’re always so timid, so hesitant. He leans in first, lightly brushing his lips against yours as though he can’t resist. When he pulls away, your eyes meet for the first time.
“I miss you when you’re gone,” He confesses and his words draw you back up to his lips. This kiss is deeper than the last, the hesitation easing away by the second. You both become more confident with your hands again, rediscovering each other’s bodies for what feels like the millionth time. Your fingers wind their way into his hair, pulling him closer until there’s no separation between the two of you. It’s the kind of kiss that makes never want to leave. It’s the kiss you’re always coming back for. And you think it could go further, up the stairs, under the sheets, where you usually end up. Instead he pulls away and you follow his lips as he straightens up.
You’re confused watching him turn on the radio, Lemmonworld by The National softly humming through the speakers. He outstretches his arms and when you wall into them he begins to sway you lightly in time with the music. It’s out of character for him – he’s not a dancer, he’s never been a dancer. But you love to dance, and so occasionally he would play the role of a man who knew how to dance, the way you play the role of a woman who plans on staying. The kitchen is lowly lit and the music is quiet so it feels like heaven – like the rest of the world doesn’t exist – and it’s perfect.
You break first, pulling yourself out of his arms and tugging him up the stairs by the tips of his fingers. And he knows from the look in your eyes that he could have you tonight, but something in his mind tells him that he would rather lie with you under the cover of darkness and just talk, than love you in any other way. He’ll be kicking himself when you leave because he only gets so much of you so often, but right now in the moment it feels right to face you on the pillows and take you in through your words and your laughter.
It’s light conversation, made naturally now all the initial awkwardness of your reunion has subsided. He updates you on how his season is going and you act like you haven’t been following every single one of his games. You tell him about the various jobs you’ve worked whilst being away and he mentions that he saw your old group of friends a few weeks ago in a bar. He doesn’t mention that he bought them all a cocktail each, and you don’t say that you saw the snapchats they sent you asking you to thank him. The air falls silent for a while, your bodies tangled together under the sheets, hands whispering through gentle movements.
“Do you remember the night we met?” He asks, his voice quiet and raspy. You nod subtly, even though he’ll hardly see the motion through the dark. “God, I knew I loved you instantly. I just remember looking at you and thinking wow she’s something else.” His confession makes you laugh lightly, half in embarrassment, half in amazement. “I don’t mind it. This. You coming and going all the time. You only ever calling when you need me. I don’t mind.”
“I’m sorry I do it.” You apologise, “You know why I can’t stay though.” He exhales in response, a yeah I know falling from his lips, pillow talk from years ago coming back to him. You had fought that night – the night you confessed everything to him. You’d been back for a longer time than usual. Two weeks. Normally you’d stay a few days, a week at most. But this time was different. You didn’t have anywhere to be and you only wanted to be with him. It was perfect. Two weeks of waking up in his arms. Two weeks of drives at 3am when you couldn’t sleep and matching cups of tea in the dimly lit kitchen. Two weeks of what could be forever. And then the call came in and you were packing your suitcase ready for an 8am flight out to New York. He was begging you to stay when you told him. Saying how much he loved you, how this really could be forever if you didn’t take the job and just stayed. His voice was bitter the whole argument; accusing you of lying to him, leading him on. You yelled back too, saying he could easily end it, easily just not pick up the phone next time you called, easily find someone else. And even after all the bitter words, you fell into bed together, needing one last night connected before it could all crumble apart in the morning. So when you’re breathing had slowed and you were wrapped up in his arms under the sheets, you confessed it all; opened your entire book for him. And he understood.
He didn’t force you to stay, didn’t make you get a taxi to the airport, didn’t look at you like something that was breaking his heart into a million pieces. Instead, he gave you one of his hoodies with the thumb holes bitten into the sleeves, drove you to the airport before the sun had come up and kissed you in the departures lounge like his life depended on it. And when you called three months later and said you would be back in London for 36 hours, he answered and he loved you the way he always does.
When you wake up in the morning, his face is pressed into your neck, arms wrapped around your waist possessively, as if he decided in his sleep that he was never going to let you go. He stirs with your movement, peppering light kisses over your shoulders and up towards your ear. The feeling makes you moan slightly and he takes it as a cue to go further.
In an instant he’s rolled you over so you’re on top of thighs straddling him. He smiles at the sight of you – your hair messy, eyes low, his shirt hanging of your shoulders. Confidently, he tugs at the hem of the shirt, pulling it up slightly until its over your head and discarded on the floor. He’s locking your lips together once more and making you forget why you’re always leaving with every movement.
He takes it slow, not letting a single second be taken for granted. It’s giving and taking, moving in harmony together as the sunlight cracks through the gap in the curtains. It’s electricity in your veins and caffeine to your brain, waking you up more than your morning cup of coffee ever could.
And afterwards, it’s pulling him down the stairs for a morning of breakfast and card games at the dining room table. He’s happy to be here – in your company, hearing your laughter, letting you win at 301 because he knows you love the glory – and he could stay here all day, keep you in doors, not share you with the world.
But he doesn’t mind when you’re pulling him into the city in the afternoon, desperate for some cakes from your favourite bakery. He doesn’t mind when you’re dragging him round every tourist spot in the city because you hardly get to spend time here. He’s more than happy to fork out the money for the last-minute tickets to see The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time on the West End because “it was your mum’s favourite book growing up and it’s only showing until the end of the month”. And he’s watching you in amazement, fully immersed in the play in front of you, and he’s wondering how someone like you could even give him the time of day, let alone give every second you have in the country to him.
When the play finishes, he’s wrapping his jacket around your shoulders to protect you from the cold London air on the walk back to the train station. He doesn’t mind that he’s now cold, because you look warm. He doesn’t mind not getting a taxi, because you look at home. He doesn’t mind being recognised on the tube because the look of content on your face is worth it. All of this is worth it.
“You’re leaving tomorrow aren’t you?” He asks as you’re walking through the door of his house. There’s an air of sadness in his voice but you know he’s not going to fight it. “I saw the text on your phone.”
“Yeah, I, um. I was going to tell you tonight. My flights at 1.” You reply, stepping closer to him, desperate to feel connected to him as much as you can.
“It’s okay,” is all he says, pulling you up the stairs back to his bed so he can make the most of the few hours he has left with you.
In the morning it’s breakfast at the local Wetherspoons, a conversation about the future, and a drive to the airport that feels like it last forever. He’s holding you in the airport as you wait out every last second, letting you go only when you can’t stay any longer without missing your flight.
“I love you, whenever you need me.” He whispers lowly. The noise of the airport is blocked out in the little cocoon you’ve created within each other’s arms.
“I love you, always.” You reply, locking your eyes with his, meaning it.
He hesitates for a minute, taking in your words, unsure of whether to echo them in return. “Yeah me too.” He says, giving up the battle with himself. With that you turn and leave him alone in the airport once more.
He goes home knowing he’ll spend the whole week missing you, listening to Eric’s “I told you so’s”, wishing he hadn’t let you go. But all that, all the hurt, will disappear soon and he will be left with dreams of you under his sheets, in his passenger seat, at his dining room table.
He prepares himself to do it all again, go through the motions, the late-night airport pick up, the slow dance in the kitchen. And although he goes on various dates and meets random girls in clubs none of it compares to you. And none of it could ever come close to the feeling he gets when he turns his phone on after training one day to a missed call from your number and a voice mail attached.
“Hi. So, I just got offered a job in London. A permanent job. I’m gonna take it. So would you maybe pick me up at Heathrow one last time?”
He’s agreeing – of course he’s agreeing. He’s making the familiar drive to the airport under the cover of darkness. Stopping off at his usual service station for your favourite crisps and Lucozade. Meeting you in your usual spot in the arrivals lounge. And you’re tentatively walking towards him, like always, scared you’ll have to start again. But he’s grinning at you like a fool and opening an arm to pull you in and kissing you as though you were oxygen and he hadn’t breathed in a lifetime.
When he pulls away, he’s revealing a bouquet of your favourite lilies from behind his back. Because people greet their loved ones at the airport with flowers. People greet their wives, fiancées and girlfriends at the airport with flowers. And he was hoping you were about to become one of the above.
